After Times of Tender Agony: Ch. 18

Found by Someone Familiar

Notes:

I am so sorry about not posting yesterday! We were travelling and I wasn't connected to wifi until pretty late...

When you see an ellipsis in dialogue that Janner hears, it doesn’t mean whoever is speaking stopped talking briefly. It means he didn’t hear the word clearly enough to figure out what it actually was. It won't always be this way - he'll learn to automatically fill in or rely on the speaker's lips for a word or two - but right now he's too tired to bother filling in the gap, so he isn't....

*****

Janner was extremely irritated when he began waking up to pain, realizing he wasn’t with Sara and Kal and Esben and Podo. Tendrils of pain crept into his mind, and he heard himself scream inwardly. Hurting meant waking, waking meant more hurting, hurting and waking both meant reality, reality meant Sara was gone, gone forever because somehow his pain hadn’t satisfied the Overseer enough and she had been killed because of it—and he had dared think his pain and imprisonment was her fault. And he didn’t want to think about the Maker now. He couldn’t.

The real problem behind the rushing of thoughts was it distracted him mentally to the point at which he forgot about not waking up physically. Sounds fluttered in a bit at a time, rustlings, low whispers, and as he heard the sound and slowly became aware of what was beneath him—something soft threatening to choke him—he realized something had happened.

He wasn’t with the Overseer. The whispers became clearer; a voice he vaguely recognized but really didn’t. The whispers said, you’re safe, and don’t worry, and no one is going to hurt you here. Without intending to, Janner found himself relaxing, just a little bit—and then something that felt like a hand rested on his head, near his left ear, and he flinched violently, then whimpered in pain as the movement aggravated the lash wounds on his back and his chest and leg and…well, everything.

“Sorry,” the voice said softly, genuine kindness in the word. “I won’t do it again…promise.”

Janner nodded, hating the way it made his head spin. Drawing in a shaky breath of air that made him want to cough, he rasped, “Who are you?”

“My name…Jebsun, and I’m…doctor,” the man—he sounded like a man—replied gently. Some of the words disappeared.  “What’s your name?”

Janner choked. Both mentally and physically, and, as he unfortunately expected it to, that led to a horrific bout of coughing. Or, it was supposed to, but he lay on his front, so that made it hard, made it feel like he was suffocating. Panic set in, but only for a few seconds. Jebsun somehow knew the exact position he needed to be in, and seconds later, there he was, half-sitting and being supported by this person he had never met before, coughing in a way that jarred everything—the lash wounds, his bruised ribs, his aching body—and made him want to cry out in pain. 

When it was over, Jebsun whispered, “do you……thing to drink?” and Janner nodded, more because he was oddly scared of what would happen if he refused. But what if something happened in the missing words?

A glass brushed against his lips and Jebsun said, “it’s a little warm…there’s honey in it,” making Janner’s stomach clench with uncertainty. He missed the middle word between the two phrases. What if something important had happened there? The last thing he had drunk with something in it…the tea Sara had given him, the one Tirge spiked—and Sara was gone. 

A few drops of the honey-water were in his mouth before he could dwell on that more, though, and the taste of it was…well, the only thing it compared to was the plumyum Artham had given him years ago when they had drawn near the First Well. 

He wanted more, but at the same time he was…scared. For some reason. Scared he would get sick and retch again—it had happened too many times as of late, and it always hurt.

“Why did you stop?” Jebsun asked, sounding concerned. He was speaking at a more normal volume now, more clearly, and even though it was a little loud, it was easier to hear. “Usually I have to tell people to drink or eat more slowly, not convince them to actually drink.”

He hadn’t realized he had actually stopped drinking and glanced up at Jebsun sheepishly. That was the first time Janner really looked at the doctor who had seemingly spawned into his life: brown hair, just a bit of a beard, warm, blue eyes, a pleasant smile. Familiar. A little like the doctor who had practiced in Glipwood and left a year before catastrophe struck. Come to think of it...they might have been the same person. Janner's blood ran cold. So why hadn't Jebsun recognized him yet?

It seemed obvious once he had thought it over for more than a second. Not only did he look nothing like himself when he had been eleven, he looked nothing like himself as he normally appeared. Janner felt a wave of warmth flooding over him, one of fear at the thought of being recognized, because somehow, someway, it would get him back to the Overseer.

 “Why’d you smile?” Janner asked hoarsely, noticing one flickering across Jebsun's face and wanting to leave the previous thoughts he had had far behind him.

Jebsun laughed a little bit. He had a nice laugh. “I’m guessing you colored…embarrassment, but ‘s the first color that’s managed to penetrate the palor…your face, so I’m not complaining about...”

Not all the words came through. Some of them fled as they all tried cramming into his right ear at the same time. He got the gist of the comment, though, and even if he wanted to smile in response to it, he couldn’t. When he had been sick in the past—or any time, really, not just when he was sick—Sara was always happy to see him embarrassed then, because it made him look healthier.

“Hey…wrong?” Jebsun murmured. Murmuring made it even harder to hear. “Why are you crying?”

He hadn’t realized he had begun crying, but once Jebsun had said it Janner was painfully aware of the tears gathering on his cheeks. He couldn’t tell a stranger why though. Instead he shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and somehow convinced his arms to wrap around his torso, as if that would make the tears stop. 

“No reason,” he whispered, instantly regretting speaking so softly in a way that dreadfully distorted the sound. Janner was almost certain Jebsun would press and pry and insist on an answer, and if that happened, he wasn’t sure what he would do. The near-certainty that escape from questions and from the place would be impossible terrified him, and now panic combined with the grief into a dreadful mess he didn’t have control over, and he hated not having control over it or anything but what was he supposed to do?

He waited for Jebsun to prod more, waited, the whole time on the verge of a panic attack, and yet…nothing happened. Jebsun didn’t ask anything else. He didn’t ask for a different answer than “no reason,” he didn’t harp back on his earlier question of “what’s your name?” and he didn’t ask anything about who he was or even how it had happened. He just held the cup up again so another drink could be taken.

And Janner felt himself relaxing because of it. Everything went a little more lax, his heart calmed, his mind slowed, his breath eased. He stopped squeezing his eyes shut and instead let them remain closed naturally, the tension in his hands and face drained away, and he felt himself falling asleep.

“One more sip before you leave,” Jebsun whispered, mercifully close to his right ear. 

Janner obliged, figuring he owed someone who hadn’t torn the truth from him yet. 

*****

“Artham, what good does riding along the road do?” Sara asked as she set up camp while Artham untacked the horses. Some of her other questions included her curiosity as to why they had spent the entire day searching nearer Lamendron, considering before they set out, he had said the likelihood of Janner being there was fairly low, but she held her tongue on that one. 

“We’ve been riding for two days total, one after dropping Maraly off with Shastan, and this is the first time you bother questioning it?” he asked amidst the sound of his unbuckling of one of the horse’s girths. Likely Lightfoot, Sara’s horse, since Artham was generally gentlemanly and considered ladies first, be they human or otherwise.

Yet Sara couldn’t help but frown when he finished speaking and lacked chivalry in said speech. It sounded like Artham had attempted a joke of some sort, but since their backs were to each other, it wasn’t as though she could see his face. Either way, it hadn’t been anywhere near the top of the list of the most polite things he had uttered. “Are you teasing me or something else? Because it wasn’t funny,” she countered shortly, emphatically tightening the knot on one of the upper points of the first tent.

Lightfoot nickered happily now, briefly; likely he had given her a scratch behind her ears or a lump of sugar. “What? No! Sara,” he sighed heavily. “I’m going to untack Garner. Do you want to brush Lightfoot?”

Sara turned around and nodded, then walked over and took the curry comb from his outstretched hand. She began currying Lightfoot immediately, choosing to ignore the uncertainty and confusion plastered on Artham’s face. Dealing with it and the emotions associated with it—as well as her own—was not on her to-do list. Normally it would be, but “find Janner” was currently the only item, and everything else came second to it. 

“You still haven’t answered me,” she stated pointedly after a few minutes of silence. Glancing over briefly, Sara saw he had begun the rather slow and dejected process of brushing Garner’s flank where the saddle and saddle pad had been. 

Artham pursed his lips, as if trying to decide whether to speak or not, and Sara couldn’t help but feel guilty. Just because she was worried about Janner and had been for weeks didn’t give her a right to be snappy, and any Throne Warden whose monarch had been misplaced would naturally be on edge.

“Artham,” she said softly, her tone gentler than it had been seconds earlier. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. But please tell me what we’re doing.”

For a little while, as Artham stroked Garner’s face over and over and over again and rested his forehead against it briefly, eyes closed, Sara was almost certain he wouldn’t speak until the morning, if he ever spoke again. 

“My sincerest apologies as well,” he said finally, glancing at her. “We’re just riding along the road until we reach a good point to set up base camp. From there, we’ll ride out into the fields and woods, scouring them.”

Sara nodded. “How many more times are we going to stop and look for a good base camp?”

Smiling lightly, Artham gestured toward the rather unimpressive camp with the half-built tent and just a few sticks for firewood. “I think this is it. A spot near equivalent lengths between Torrboro, the Warren Downs, and Lamendron. We’ll ride out tomorrow. We will find him. I promise. Now, what would be incredibly helpful in terms of doing so,” —he backed away from Garner and walked toward  the tent still completely unpacked, then began setting it up— “is if Leeli continues playing her whistleharp and the dragons happen to allow a successful communication triangle. I’ve heard it a few times since I arrived, but it hasn’t been anywhere near as frequent nor as informative as I was hoping.”

“Have you heard him?” she whispered almost inaudibly, her voice breaking. She couldn’t help but think of Janner’s shirt, the hiding in her pack.

Artham’s eyes flickered uneasily. “Not really. And what I’ve seen hasn’t been clear either.” 

“And what does that mean?”

Sighing, Artham ran his fingers through his hair. “It means…when the music has come, he’s been lucid enough to see things on mine and Leeli’s ends, but not completely lucid at the same time. And for some reason, there hasn’t been much speaking or other noises on his end.” 

For some reason, even though she knew things weren’t going well for Janner, more tangible proof sent her heart into her throat. “What do you mean, ‘not completely lucid’? How do you know?

“Because,” Artham said slowly. “I have seen a little. By a little, I mean more so than normal, but not enough for instructions or clues unfortunately. And the only way that’s the case is if he’s not completely lucid. I haven’t heard anything in a little while, though.” 

“So what if he’s—” Sara whispered, frozen, hating herself for suggesting such a thing but not knowing what else to say. 

‘He’s not,” Artham told her sharply, his eyes flashing. “He was here a few days ago—I just told you that. There wouldn’t be anything if he was gone, and there has been something.” 

“But, but, what if Leeli’s been playing these past few days, and the dragons have been around, and it just isn’t working? What if—” Sara began, feeling sick to her stomach. Worse than sick to her stomach. Sick to her heart, her mind. Feeling trembly, cold, a little like she needed to sit down. 

Artham caught her arm and lowered her to the grass carefully, then crouched beside her, shaking his head fervently. “No. Sara, I promise you, he was alive a few days ago. There’s been breaks in between when the music works in the past. It doesn’t always work. But don’t he’s gone. We can’t think that. Don’t lose hope, please. Something about Janner’s tenacity makes me think he’s still alive. Don’t forget, the Maker has kept him with us up to this point and gotten him past things that easily could have killed him. We’ve no reason to think the Maker won’t come through again.”

“And if He doesn’t?” Sara murmured, squeezing her eyes shut, as if that would stop the fear and grief in her heart and mind from multiplying.

Artham stayed silent for what felt like forever. “Then He is still good. And trusting Him is still our only real option.”

*****

Notes:

If Janner doesn't seem as traumatized as you were expecting, considering everything that's happened, there's a reason. I'm trying to keep more in line with his MBTI this time in terms of how he reacts to trauma. Last time I traumatized him in SSitS, I sort of had him reacting to trauma like an INFP (whoopsy...) when he should have been reacting to it as an INFJ. It's possible this will still seem like the stereotypical INFP trauma reaction (i.e. shutting down and lying depressed in a bed for days/weeks/months, but part of that is because...well, he's sick and wounded, where else am I supposed to put him?). What I'm trying to convey is that he is responsive, some things are triggering him because PTSD, and he is, above all things, pushing down a lot of what's hiding inside because if he convinces his mind things are sort of okay, he thinks he'll be okay. We'll see if that comes across right over the course of the story, idk.

Also, now you've seen Jebsun sort of recognizing Janner, and Janner successfully recognizing Jebsun. Funny how this man has suddenly been connected to their lives...hmmm I wonder who else might have connection with him... 👀

Let me know if there's anything noncanonical^^